


Screwdriver

by hwbswd



Series: Fruity Drinks [3]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn ratio is increasing, Porn with Feelings, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26665582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwbswd/pseuds/hwbswd
Summary: “Here,” Paul says, holding something out. It’s a little paper parasol, pink, the kind that comes with a tropical drink and a wedge of pineapple. He slides it open and tucks it behind Till’s ear like a flower. “Welcome.” And then they both giggle at him with broad, warm grins.Till blinks, a slow stupid smile pulling his cheeks up under Flake’s hands. “Hi.”“Hi to you, too,” Flake says quietly, and kisses him softly again.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake, Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake/Till Lindemann
Series: Fruity Drinks [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825258
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Screwdriver

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Hochrot for beta!

It’s morning when his phone rings.

“Hello, Lindemann here.”

“Laaaaanders.” Paul drags out the name. “And what, you’re going to be formal with me now? I might start to think it was just a fling.” He sounds mockingly hurt. Till can hear Flake snigger in the background. 

“Like you ever look before answering your phone.” 

“I shall forgive your appalling breach of etiquette if you will answer my question.” 

Given how Paul started this call, Till has a pretty good idea of what it is he wants, but he plays along. “Ask.”

“Are you in the mood for a vacation?” 

Even though it’s what he expected, Till still gets a little thrill at it, a quick tingle from his skull down his spine. “Where did you have in mind?” He’s suppressing a smile, only mostly successfully. 

“It’s a great little place, you’ll love it.” Till supposes it’s a bit late to be embarrassed that he so blatantly does. Paul goes on, “Beautiful scenery, _friendly_ locals…” He sounds like he’s waggling his eyebrows. 

“Mmm, how’s the weather?”

“Warm sun, balmy breeze, picturesque sunsets.” 

“When do you want me?” 

“This evening? If that works?” 

“Come to my place.” It’s out of Till’s mouth before he’s had a chance to think about it. They’ve never been here - well, not for this - and as soon as it’s out he has a flash of fear that he has overstepped. 

Paul is unfazed. “Okay, but we’re hosting. Bring your swimsuit.” 

“Metaphorically.” 

“Very metaphorically, we’re going skinny dipping. So to speak.” Flake chortles nearby before Paul hangs up. 

***

By evening Till has tidied exhaustively, there are clean sheets on the bed and the bathroom has never been so spotless. He himself is freshly shaved and showered, and starting to feel a little raw around the edges. 

It’s a dreaded relief when they finally arrive. He opens the door to them standing side by side, carrying grocery bags and wearing big shiteating grins under cozy hats. They kiss him on the cheeks, one on each side, like they’ve been practicing. 

“We brought noodles,” Flake steps through the door and fishes in a shopping bag, shaking the box of dry spaghetti at him like a maraca. “Hungry?” 

“Not - not just yet.” 

He’s pretty sure Paul sees right through him, as always. “Appetizer first?” The two of them cackle and move into the kitchen, all bright companionable chatter and rustling bags and clattering jars. Till suddenly, clearly remembers them invading another house of his, years ago. The whole band together was like being run over by a herd of wildebeest, but even just the two of them were nearly overwhelming, with their loud clipped accents and fast, involved conversations that carried on across days and topics. 

He thinks he’ll offer them a drink, once he can break in, and what is happening with this, with him being _nervous_? It’s getting worse instead of better, he didn’t fret the first couple times that they would notice his unsteady hands. After the drink...they’ll have to start - start somehow, but he can’t imagine, and he’s so immersed in worry that he doesn’t see it coming when Flake just stands between his feet and puts his meager weight against him. He barely has a chance to get his stance stable before Flake takes his face in his long hands and presses their mouths together, there in the kitchen with the fridge handles poking into his back. 

It’s an aggressive kiss by Flake standards, which is to say it’s soft and sweet and patiently insistent. He shaved recently too, by his smooth lower lip rubbing against Till’s. He wraps his arms around him, trapping Flake’s bent arms between them. Flake’s fingers are cold behind his ears but his tongue is hot as he licks to the corner of his mouth, where his lips come to their thinnest point. Till caresses his back carefully, spreading his hands out flat over his frumpy sweater and bony spine. Flake’s tongue wanders to the inside of his upper lip, and he runs the tip of his own down the slippery muscular side of it. 

Till realizes the sounds of Paul unpacking have stopped. He opens his eyes to see him leaned back against the opposite counter, arms crossed, face unreadable. For the first time it occurs to him that jealousy could be an issue here, that they’re practically inviting it, and Flake is still all over him. His stomach twists. Then Paul blinks, and his lips part, he blinks again with a little shake of his head and breathes, “Shit, that’s hot.” 

Flake pecks him and raises his eyes as he pulls away. “Better?” he asks, breath puffing across Till’s cheek, crossed by his thumb still holding him. “You were thinking again.” 

“Want a drink?” he mutters. 

Paul shoves himself away from the counter and steps to right behind Flake and then leans, pushing Flake’s hips into Till’s. He’s hard, Flake is, just from that little bit of making out. He’s sure Flake can feel the same of him. 

Paul smooches the back of his hand where it rests on Flake’s back before straightening up to rest his chin on Flake’s shoulder. “Do _you_?” 

His and Flake’s faces are side by side and wearing exactly the same expectant expression. An unanticipated laugh burbles up out of Till. “Not particularly.” He feels suddenly light. “I just couldn’t figure out how to get started.” His jaw slides in Flake’s palms when he talks.

Paul leers at him while he puts his hands on Flake’s hips, then slides them up inside his shirt and around onto his belly. Flake curls away from them, which just rolls his back into Paul. His fingers must be cold, like Flake’s are on his neck. Paul turns his hands out, pulling up Flake’s shirt so his fingertips can instead graze against Till, the backs of them rubbing against him through his tucked-in shirt, then inside his waistband to pop open the button of his jeans. 

“Why don’t you just let us help, then.” He mouths the back of Flake’s neck, and Till has a really terrific view of Flake’s eyes unfocusing. 

Then Paul moves his hands back to Flake and stuffs one down his pants, no warning or warmup or anything, and cold or no Flake’s eyes close and he squirms against the two of them and bites his lip. Paul does something to the back of Flake’s neck with his mouth that makes him gasp, and then winks at Till.

Till swallows. “Paul, you’re doing that on purpose. Aren’t you.” 

Paul grins wolfishly at him. “You just now figured that out?” 

He drags his hand out of Flake’s pants and steps away, back to the bags on the counter, and Flake suddenly looks very pleased, his eyes on Till. So they have some plan. 

“Here,” Paul says, holding something out. It’s a little paper parasol, pink, the kind that comes with a tropical drink and a wedge of pineapple. He slides it open and tucks it behind Till’s ear like a flower. “Welcome.” And then they both giggle at him with broad, warm grins. 

Till blinks, a slow stupid smile pulling his cheeks up under Flake’s hands. “Hi.” 

“Hi to you, too,” Flake says quietly, and kisses him softly again. 

Paul puts his chin back on Flake’s shoulder, and Till’s nerves fade. He reaches one hand around to Paul’s lower back and rubs up under his shirt. Flake wiggles his arms down under Till’s and starts working determinedly on his shirt buttons. He just keeps on going at the bottom, pulling the shirt out of his pants and headed straight for his fly. 

Till wraps his other arm around Paul, squashing Flake in the middle, and starts pushing them backwards until they both take a step. They outweigh him together but not by a lot, and he doesn’t have any trouble encouraging them to start walking. Flake is going to trip, but they won’t let him fall. 

“You’ve never had your dick out in your kitchen?” As expected Flake stumbles, and Paul’s grip around Till’s back tightens to hold him upright. 

“Never said that.” But if they’re just going for this right the hell now he wants them in his _bed_ , in _his_ bed. Once they’re through the door he slaps the light on and lets them go. Flake gets a grip on his jeans like he kept trying to. He pushes them down and drops to the floor to keep pulling them over Till’s knees. 

Till has two thoughts in quick succession. The first is that Flake must really be in a hurry. The second is that he profoundly does not like having him kneeling in front of him. It feels totally wrong, sickeningly perverse, and his hands ball up, the nails sharp on his palms. 

Paul must read his face, because he puts a hand on Flake’s shoulder and says, “Hey. Flake. Slow down.” 

Flake looks up, and Till doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want Flake looking up at him like that. He stands back up to his full, slightly-taller-than-Till height, and Till is torn between relief and terror, that he’s made a horrible mistake. 

“I - sorry,” Flake says. He scratches the back of his head, the way he does when he’s feeling self-conscious. “Got --carried away.” He doesn’t stutter, not really, but Till can hear the little block before the word. 

He reaches for Flake fearfully, not quite touching him. He was going for his side, for a sort of poorly-planned hug, but Flake catches his hand, and Till has another bolt of dread before Flake brings it to his chest. He doesn’t do anything with it, just holds the gnarled lump of it to himself. Paul is beside Till, his thumb rubbing down his other wrist and into his clenched hand, easing the fingers open. 

Till clears his throat. “I told you you’d know if you spooked me.” His voice sounds rough. 

“What got you?” Paul asks quietly. “Too fast?” 

Till guffaws lightly. “Fast is never my problem.” Flake smiles and gives his hand a squeeze, and Paul smiles a little against his shoulder. It’s nice. Fortifying. “I just - don’t - I don’t want you under me.” 

“The first time -?” Flake asks. 

“That was all right, as long as I was careful to not flatten you.” Paul grins and smooches his shoulder, and Till takes a deep heavy breath. 

Paul winds an arm around his chest. “I get it.” To Till’s skeptical look he says, “I do.” And maybe he does, at that. “You want to take a break? Have some dinner, come back after?” Till is aware that they’re still each holding one hand. 

Till is also aware that he has his pants around his ankles. “Nah,” he says. “Everything else is good. I’m good. If - if you are.” 

Flake nods, then brings Till’s hand to his mouth. He carefully kisses the first knuckle, and his eyes on him are almost painfully blue. Then the knuckle of the second finger, then the third, then the fourth. Paul rubs his thumb on his other hand. He opens his palm onto Flake’s cheek, and Flake leans into it, his hand over Till’s. 

Paul pulls him down by the back of the head. He hasn’t kissed Paul properly yet, he thinks. He’s always firmer than Flake, though actually maybe less pushy, strangely. He feels his breath loosen and flow easier, Paul’s warm mouth covering his, his tongue meeting his own, Paul’s lips sliding smoothly over his thicker ones. Flake turns and kisses the center of his palm. 

Okay, maybe it was a little fast. 

Till kicks off his pants and boxers, trying not to step on Paul’s feet. He would take the shirt off too, but his arms are busy, one with each of them. He strokes down Paul’s back to his ass. As he spreads his hand out and draws him closer Paul huffs against his mouth, then moves down to kiss under his jaw. He feels Flake come up against them. The fabric of Paul’s pants is pulled tight under his grip as another hand joins his, grabbing Paul’s other cheek. 

Paul shifts. “I could take those off. Just saying.” His breath cools the wet spot he made on Till’s neck. 

“I _was_ promised skinny dipping.” Till turns his hand from Flake’s face to grasp the thin hand pressed over it. 

“I’m not very skinny,” says Paul, undoing his pants. 

“Me neither,” says Till.

Flake grins. “I’ve got this covered. As long as there’s dipping, we’re all set.” 

“That almost made sense,” says Paul, and Till feels suddenly the whole collection of reactions he’s coming to associate with seeing Paul’s dick. Salivating, light-headedness, the works. 

“You’re going to regret not wearing underwear,” Flake tells him, entirely more calmly than is justified. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Doesn’t it chafe?” Flake wrinkles his nose.

“Not if I’m not wearing pants. And why are you talking about chafe at a time like this?” 

Paul pushes Till to sit on the bed. Till goes willingly, and Paul clambers easily into his lap, knees against the sides of his hips, ass on his thighs, warm firm groin right up against his separated by both their shirts. It makes Paul taller for once. Till slides his hands under his shirt to caress his sides. 

“I could take that off, too,” Paul suggests. Till nods. Paul is careful of his elbows as he skins it off. Till stares at his throat, at the cords of it under his fair skin, at his soft, muscular chest, at the curve of his hips, at his pink cock head pushed up against his squashy belly. He looks very naked against Till’s dark shirt, half smiling at him. 

Flake sits beside him and puts an arm around Till’s waist. He must have taken his sweater off while Till was distracted, he’s bare-chested. “Anything you’d particularly like?”

He’s had a chance to think about it this time. He figures if you want to know how to get someone off, ask the guy who’s done it thousands of times. Plus, he doesn’t think this will push Paul’s buttons around trusting someone enough to owe them something. They can play with that when Till hosts. He looks Paul in the eye and says, “I want you to teach me how to blow Flake. How he likes.” 

Flake makes a “Pfffftb,” sort of a noise against Till’s shoulder as he huffs an entire breath through his lips at once and says, “Oh well, I wasn’t planning on using my brain ever again anyway.” 

Paul raises an eyebrow. “You sure that’s how you want to spend your relaxing getaway?” 

“Consider it surfing lessons or something.” 

Paul nods and makes a show of pulling his lower lip in over his teeth. “He’s not much different than anyone else.” 

Till nuzzles into Paul’s neck, mouthing the soft valley behind a tendon, while Flake says, “You’ll destroy my image, talking like that.” 

“That’s -” Paul gasps at Till sucks under his ear, “That’s not saying much.” 

Till interrupts before Flake can produce a comeback. “Or he could show me how to blow you.” He says it low and gravelly under Paul’s ear. 

“He’s not much different than anyone else, either,” contributes Flake. 

“Go back to the first plan,” says Paul, “That sounded fun.” 

“And then would you fuck me?” 

He feels Paul jerk a little in his lap, his thigh muscles pulling tight. “You got it.” 

“Flake, you in?” 

He looks at Flake beside him. “Yeah, sure.” He sounds like he’s trying to play it cool but his voice is high and breathy, almost squeaky, his eyes round behind his glasses. Till grins and bites his lip. “Shut up,” mumbles Flake, and oh, Till hasn’t really made him blush before this, he’s going to have to learn to do that well, too. 

He pulls the small of Paul’s back in with one hand while he slides the other up to hold Flake in place to kiss him. Not that he much needs to, Flake as usual is giving as good as he’s getting, in his soft way. Till feels Paul twitch against him. Right. Paul seems to like that, likes seeing them. Paul unwinds one arm from around Till’s neck, and Till peeks as he runs his fingers up the other side of Flake’s neck and into his hair, brushing his thumb along Flake’s jawline. Till lets his eyes drift closed again, and goes back to letting Flake lick all over his mouth, sharing breaths. 

He’s not entirely surprised when he feels a touch on his lip. Paul pushes his thumb between them, it’s mostly curved into Flake’s mouth but the knuckle under Till’s tongue is rougher and cooler. He kneads Paul’s side. Paul tenses a little, he’s not sure if it’s from arousal or ticklishness. He realizes they have Flake’s head pretty well trapped between their two hands, Paul on one side and Till holding the other, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He traces Paul’s thumb with his tongue. Halfway along he comes up against Flake’s tongue, enthusiastically curling around both of them. 

Flake’s other hand, the one that’s not lightly rubbing his back, is on Paul’s thigh. He can hear him moving it, maybe stroking up to Paul’s side. So Paul, too, is pretty well trapped between two hands. He rolls his hips slightly, rubbing against Paul. Paul tightens the arm behind his neck and kisses him on the temple. Till runs his tongue up and down again, keeping contact with Paul’s thumb and melding against Flake’s. They both sigh against his face. 

“As much fun as this is,” Paul murmurs, “Flake’s going to combust if we don’t get going.” He slips his thumb out of the kiss. 

Flake pulls off of Till’s mouth just enough to say, “In a nice way.” His ears are red. Paul laughs and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. His cheek brushes Till’s, their heads are all so close together. Flake lowers his eyes demurely, just the same as with Till. And then obviously jams his tongue into Paul’s mouth, because it’s a trick. Till is still holding Flake’s head, so is Paul, and they kiss each other as gently as they kiss him. Flake moves a little in his hand, getting a better angle. Paul strokes his damp thumb over Flake’s cheekbone, and there’s the constriction around Till’s chest again, right on schedule. 

“Are you going to take your pants off, or what?” Paul asks, right up against Flake’s lips. 

Flake rolls his eyes, but extricates himself and stands to drop his jogging pants. Paul climbs off of Till’s lap. He puts his hands heavily on Till’s knees and leans right into his face. 

“How much clothes do you want to wear for this?”

Till closes the last inch to peck him on the mouth. “Was that the polite version of ‘are you going to take your shirt off, or what’?” Flake has gotten back onto the bed, but now he’s behind Till rather than beside him, moving around. 

Paul gives him a _‘Well?'_ look. 

Till nods. “Help me out?” 

Flake behind him says, “Okay,” and Paul makes a face that says fondly, ‘ _Can you believe this guy?_ ’ as Flake tugs the button-down off his shoulders. 

“I can see you,” Flake says. He puts both cool hands on Till’s lower back inside his t-shirt and runs them all the way up to his neck, then slides the whole thing over his head. It dislodges the paper parasol that was still tucked behind Till’s ear. Flake drops the t-shirt in Till’s lap, and the parasol drifts down on top of it. He drapes his arms down Till’s bare chest, pressing his body from knees to sharp ribs against Till’s back. In front of him Paul licks his lips. 

“I’m following you,” Till tells Paul. 

Paul looks at Flake above him. “Lay down?” 

They watch as Flake bunches up a pillow under his head and stretches out on his back, long pale limbs splayed, like he’s always belonged naked in Till’s bed, like he’s been here forever. Paul climbs on the bed and crawls over him, one knee on either side of his long waist. Flake reaches up and runs his hands from hips to chest. 

“Glasses?” Paul is still on all fours over Flake, getting his upper arms rubbed now. 

“Nope, I want to see this.” 

Till thinks, ‘this is what they look like when I’m not here’, Flake’s face tipped up easily, Paul’s little sunny smirk down at him. A wave of hunger runs through Till, a deep ache. Until Paul completes his transit and reaches over Flake to pat the bed, beckoning to Till with an imperious look. He mirrors Paul’s position, propping himself on one elbow on Flake’s other side. Paul looks him up and down, so he returns the favor. They look _good_ next to each other like that, Flake all lanky sprawl against Paul’s compact strength. 

He realizes they’re both eying him now, and for a moment he’s afraid he doesn’t belong - his huge alien body, his unrelentingly alien being that doesn't really fit anywhere. But they don’t seem to be thinking that, and Flake even brushes his hand up his thigh, narrowly missing his dick, and trails it up his side to his chest. 

“Still following?” Paul asks. 

Till nods. Paul drags his eyes away and bends to kiss Flake again. He doesn’t linger, though, and after a moment he scoots down to nuzzle down his neck. 

“C’mere,” Flake says. His ears are red again, and his cheeks aren’t far behind. His mouth is wet, his eyes look huge and bright behind the glasses. Till leans in carefully to kiss him. Flake brings his hand up to settle behind his neck. When Till sucks on Flake’s lip Flake makes a little enthusiastic “mmph” into his mouth. 

Till flinches when a firm finger pokes him in the side. Right. He’s supposed to be following Paul, who has mouthed his way down to Flake’s nipple. He hurries to catch up, sucking soft kisses down Flake’s neck and over his bird-fine collar bone. He feels every bumpy rib on his way to the other nipple. Flake hisses when he circles his tongue around it, so he must be doing something right. Paul grins at him, as well as he can with his mouth all over Flake’s skin. He jerks his head, a ‘come on, this way’ gesture, and leaves the nipple for more southern regions. 

By the time they get to Flake’s hipbones he’s repetitively clenching his hands in the blankets. His cock is glistening and flushed. Till licks his lips. He expected Paul to go straight for it, but instead Paul looks to him. Till looks back, not sure what Paul wants, until Paul makes a sort of ‘all yours’ gesture. 

“If you two are being polite down there -” Flake chokes out. 

“Patience,” says Paul, “you’re a surfing lesson.” 

“Step one,” gasps Flake, “get on the board,” and Paul laughs as Till fills his mouth with the tip. The first taste of him is sharp, before he laps it away with his tongue. Flake squirms, his stomach muscles tight under Till’s chin. Till eases down, he’s not in a great position but Flake doesn’t seem to be complaining. He wraps a hand around the base and starts bobbing his head. Flake places a hand on his shoulder, not pushing him, just touching him. 

Paul arranges himself so he’s faced towards Flake’s feet. He strokes Till’s stretched cheek with one fingertip. “You don’t have to suck very much.” 

Till gives him a couple lighter strokes with his mouth, then pulls off and does a couple with just his hand, sheerly for the pleasure of fondling him. “Show me?” 

Flake makes an inarticulate noise above them. 

Paul takes the space Till just occupied and swallows him down, his eyes on Till. They look damn good like this, too, Till thinks, Flake with his long legs falling open and Paul tucked up against him, back curled over him, Flake’s hand tight on his hip, and Flake’s dick sliding wet in and out of his lips. 

“A little faster than I was doing, yeah?” Till observes. 

“If you can.” Paul moves aside, and Till shifts to match his position, his massive mirror image. Flake is quiet but he puts his other hand on Till’s hip, completing the symmetry. He imitates Paul’s movements and Flake’s hand tightens. Till’s mouth, his whole skull really, is bigger than Paul’s, and now that he’s better situated he thinks he can get a bit deeper just on that. 

They trade off a couple more times, and this is great, as soon as his jaw gets tired he can switch to watching, and as soon as he’s dying to get back in it’s his turn again. Flake is starting to make desperate little whimpers every time they trade but he doesn’t ever really thrust, just kind of writhes. 

Then while it’s Paul’s turn Till nudges his hand aside to cover the base with his wide-open mouth. He tries to match Paul’s rhythm, their lips touching, Paul’s nose bumping his cheek. Flake’s hand wanders up his throat and jaw, and he feels inquisitive fingers on his lips, on the skin between them, probably on Paul’s, too. He pinches one and pulls it into his mouth, he can’t really suck it but he can trap it under his tongue, sliding up and down along with Flake’s tight thin skin. 

“You - oh, that’s, you’re, -” Flake makes a couple shallow, quick thrusts, which Paul is clearly ready for, and then goes rigid, hips rolled high, his breath coming in deep fast huffs. Till is so near he can hear Paul swallowing. They pull off together, and Flake sighs expansively. 

Paul wipes his mouth on his wrist, grinning hugely. “Good?” 

“Ask me again in a year when I can have a coherent thought.” Flake’s voice scrapes a little on the first syllables before catching. 

Paul turns to lay beside him propped on his elbows, and Till follows. Flake’s eyes are closed, his expression distant. “You talk a lot for someone with no coherent thoughts,” Paul says, kissing his cheek. 

“What else is new.” Flake sounds too blissed-out to convincingly grumble. 

“How was watching in focus?” 

Flake cracks one eye open, and Till wonders if he feels claustrophobic, both he and Paul have their faces right up near his. “Fantastic, for about a second when I had my eyes open.” Apparently he’s fine with it. Paul nuzzles under one ear, and Till noses into his hair. It smells like his conditioner. “I love being educational.” 

“I might not have gotten all the finer points,” Till says. 

Flake smiles, eyes still closed. “Well, the first lesson is free.” 

Till guffaws. “What’s the next one cost?” 

“Mmm, I’ll think of something.” 

“Eh, you’re a quick study,” says Paul. He looks smug, still, like he’s proud to be here, proud that Flake is lying there limply between them, proud that Till is grinning back at him over Flake’s skinny little chest. Little warm bubbles of happiness rise through Till’s veins. 

They just lay together a minute, Flake seeming perfectly content to let Paul settle a hand on his ribs, thumb rubbing over his sternum, while Till lazily runs his fingers over the delicate skin of his shoulder and neck. Then he finds that he can bring his arm under Paul’s and onto _his_ chest, the skin denting springily under his fingers. He rolls one nipple between thumb and forefinger, and oh, yeah, Paul is starting to hump against Flake’s hip a little. Flake’s arms are at his sides, and when he turns his hand out, Till’s dick lands in it practically of its own accord. 

“Some day I think I’d like to just jerk both of you off like this,” says Flake drowsily. He may sound sleepy, but he’s doing the exact same trick with his other hand. 

“I - we’d better move on to the next point of interest if we want to get there,” says Paul. “Let me get the stuff.” He’s back in cruise-director mode as he slides out of Flake’s hand. They both turn to watch him walk out, spectacularly, and then back a moment later with a lumpy plastic grocery bag. 

“Till, you can just stay there if you bring your knees up.” He sits on Till’s side of the bed and dumps the bag’s contents on the mattress behind him. “If you want.” 

“Yeah.” Till wants, he wants. 

Flake bends his knees, and with a little arranging Till can lie on his side with his legs drawn up, Flake’s draped over his. It puts Flake right in his arms. Flake pulls his glasses off. “Put these somewhere?” He holds them out to Paul. 

“Done with seeing?” 

“They’re going to get all smudged when I smash my face on this guy.” Which he then does, kissing all over Till’s face while Paul caresses his hip, his thighs, his ass. Paul is as gentle as the first time. It still hurts, but it’s still not physical. It’s the gentleness that hurts. It’s Paul leaning down to kiss his waist while he rocks his fingers. It’s his other hand steady on Till’s hip, the fingertips hard with callouses. It’s Flake, infinitely softly kissing the corner of his eye. It’s the two of them watching each other, knowing too many of his sins, while he opens completely between them. 

Paul pulls off the glove. “You like that position?” 

“I’d rather see you.” 

“Here.” Flake scoots away from him, then sits up against the headboard. He puts a pillow in his crossed legs. “If you don’t mind being on your back.”

Till settles his head in Flake’s lap. Paul rolls on a condom. Onto that beautiful cock, that’s going in him. Till shivers, and Flake strokes through his hair. 

“You’re doing all the work,” Till says, guiltily.

“That is literally the point of us hosting,” Paul says, now smearing on lube. “Lift your legs.” 

He sounds so unperturbed, so cheerfully confident that he’s right, and a stronger man than Till couldn’t have resisted. He lifts his legs. Paul nudges them apart, kissing up the inside of Till’s calf before settling Till’s knees over his shoulders. His own legs are splayed open, he’s holding most of his weight on his arms. He brings one hand down to aim, seating the head before taking his hand back. His shoulder muscles bunch as he shifts his weight.

“You can rest on me some,” Till offers. “I’m in a good position for it.” It will press his thighs onto his chest, which is comfortable in several ways. 

“Let me get going first.” Paul is easing in with little short slick thrusts. Flake strokes Till’s head and neck with his smooth fingers. They’re both watching his face. Till closes his eyes and tries to not pull Paul in with his heels. 

Paul works all the way in before he puts weight on Till. When he does it pushes his knees almost to his shoulders and rolls his pelvis up. Paul pauses, exhaling slowly, before he presses in the last centimeter. He stays there, as deep as he can be, with his warm chest held heavily in Till’s legs. Flake combs his fingers through Till’s hair. Till finds that he has relaxed, that Paul’s weight bearing his back down into the mattress has eased the last of the tension he was carrying in his shoulders. He reaches his arms up to loop them awkwardly around Flake’s back. 

Paul presses a kiss to Till’s knee. “You’re -” 

When he doesn’t add anything more, Till opens his eyes. “I’m what?” Paul is smiling at him, a thoughtful, maybe slightly puzzled, slightly determined smile. That’s a dangerous look on him. He brings one thumb to pull at Till’s lip. 

Paul shakes his head. “Just liking what I see.” And then starts to move, steady controlled strokes with a little twist sometimes, brows knit in concentration. Every once in a while he peeks through his eyelashes at Till, and then quirks a little pleased smile, like a shot of sunlight between thick green trees. 

Flake leans down to him, it feels like it puts quite a curve in his spine, but if Till tilts his chin up he can meet his mouth. And from there Flake can reach down to put one hand between his thighs, in the narrow space between him and Paul. He doesn’t even try to move it, just wraps it around Till’s cock and lets Paul’s smooth thrusts rock him into it. Till feels surrounded, he’s enveloped between their bodies, bathed in their warm affection. Paul’s weight grounds him as Flake’s soft mouth and hand urge him on. 

He comes way before Paul, way before he’d expected or planned to, spilling wet over Flake’s fingers and gasping into his mouth, Paul moving inexorably over him. It’s not a single crushing wave, it’s a whole sea of swells, rolling over him one after another. Paul is doing little screwing movements that make his spine tingle, again and again. It’s hard to tell where the orgasm ends and the aftershocks begin. He surrenders to it and sinks trembling in the troughs and floats high on the crests, one hand on Flake’s bent back, the other on Paul, on his face, Paul kissing the pad of his thumb. 

When his breaths taper down from their shuddering, bellows-like heaving to something calmer, Till blinks heavily. Flake draws his hand out from its cramped cave and pecks him on the lips. 

Paul laughs, still in deep. “That looked fun.” 

Till nods. 

“I’m that good, huh?”

Till chuckles and nods again, and Flake rubs his bicep. “Don’t swell his ego too much, he’s already insufferable.” Paul grins. Flake pats his shoulder and then stretches above him, a full, arms-above-the-head, spine-cracking stretch. His ribcage spreads wide as his thin abdomen is pulled in. He brings both hands back to cradle the sides of Till’s head. 

Paul kisses Till’s chest, right over his heart, and it falls like a shooting star, orange sparks illuminating dark crevices on its long descent. “Still comfortable? I can do something else if you’re done.” 

“Keep going.” 

Paul apparently doesn’t need to be told twice. He lengthens his stroke, but it’s still so gentle, both of them looking tenderly down at Till. He closes his eyes in self-defense. He’s moved slightly with Paul’s thrusts, his shoulders pushing against Flake’s shins. He’s a little sensitive but nothing unpleasant, rather the opposite. 

Flake takes one hand out of Till’s hair and reaches down to his side, where Paul’s wrist is braced. He tucks his fingers between it and Till’s ribs, and Till can feel him slide the soft skin over the tendons. It’s easier to look at Paul now that he’s not opening his eyes anymore, just biting his lip, though his pace is perfectly steady. But he smiles when Flake rubs his wrist, and he smiles wider when Till curls his arm around to caress the other one. He’s sweating, mostly where they touch. 

He’s so precise with his thrusts, so conscientiously keeping them just the right force to rock Till a bit but no more, so deep and regular, that Till doesn’t recognize how far gone he is until Paul drops his head, resting his forehead on Till’s chest between his knees, and grunts through his open mouth. His back muscles tighten and ripple under Till’s calves. His motion doesn’t change at all, it’s the same steady fluid rhythm, but Till can feel his cock flexing on every stroke in time with his shuddering. 

He comes to rest pressed close, breathing warm on Till’s breastbone. Till thinks he must surely feel his heart, thudding against his forehead. Flake is still rubbing his wrist. Paul mumbles something that doesn’t make it past Till’s thighs, the bulkiness of them bracketing his face. 

“Now who doesn’t have coherent thoughts?” Flake strokes up his arm

Paul lifts his sweat-dampened, blurrily grinning face. “I said, ‘God, that’s nice.’ So it was perfectly coherent, I’ll have you know.” 

Flake laughs. And then so does Paul, looking from one to the other and back. Till is bounced a little by both of them. He’s grinning hard too, though his eyes prick a bit. 

“How you doing?” Flake asks, stroking his hair back. 

“Good. Really good.” He reaches up and runs fingertips from Flake’s collarbones, down his chest, down his tight stomach. 

“Only the pillow saved you from having a dick in your hair,” says Flake. 

Paul makes one of his ‘ _this fucking guy_ ’ faces. “You just say stuff, don’t you?” 

Flake shrugs, unconcerned, as Paul slowly, carefully slides out. He gets up to toss the condom. Till stretches his legs, though somewhat reluctantly. He misses Paul’s warm heaviness. 

Paul rolls back in, snug up against Till’s side. “Someone smeared come all over you.” He eyes the drying mess. 

“Not my fault,” Flake protests. 

“I’d shower with you,” Paul offers. There’s something tight under the amiable surface of his voice. He lays his head on Till’s chest. Flake quietly rubs between his shoulder blades, and Till wraps his arm around his waist. He wishes he could see Paul’s face, but it’s turned down and away. 

“You like that?” 

“Yeah,” Paul says, like he’s not going to let himself back down now. “Let’s go.” He pulls away.

“Hand me my sweater, then,” says Flake, perpetually chilly. Till gets up and looks on the floor halfheartedly, but he can’t see where Flake chucked it, so after a moment he gives up and grabs a hoodie from the open closet. Flake accepts it unquestioningly, and emerges from the neck looking bedraggled. 

Till expected Flake to stay in bed, but instead he follows them to the bathroom and perches next to the sink while Paul starts the water. The sweatshirt is too big on him, it wants to cover his hands and upper thighs, though when he sits it rides up so his bare butt is right on the counter. 

“You getting in?” 

Flake shakes his head, so Till slides the shower door shut behind him. 

“He just likes the steam,” Paul says. He’s faced towards the spray, rinsing his groin, and Till admires the freckled breadth of his back, the rounding of his ass. Just that makes his heart kick a little. 

“I’m right here,” Flake calls over the sound of the shower. The texture of the glass door blurs everything but his outline, dark blobby upper body and thin legs dangling. 

Paul turns. He’s rolling his eyes, but also smiling, easier than he was a moment ago. “What are you thinking?” 

Till holds himself rather stiffly aloof. “That somebody smeared lube all over me, too.” 

Paul reaches for Till’s waist, holding him so they can pass each other. “What else are you thinking?” 

Till lets the water stream down his back. He runs a hand down his ass, lube thinning out. “I want to push that sweatshirt up just a little and put him back in my mouth, honestly.” 

Paul laughs while Flake says loudly, “Still right here.” 

“He won’t come again for hours unless you employ extraordinary measures.” Paul raises an eyebrow. 

“I swear to god, Paul.” 

Till grins. “I wasn’t planning to actually do it. You just asked what I was thinking.” He looks down Paul’s front, the water has plastered the hair down on his chest and crotch. It makes him look sleeker than usual. Till’s not going to touch, not without an invitation, not if just getting in the shower with him is pushing Paul’s comfort. “What are you thinking?”

“Turn around.” 

Till does, and Paul steps right behind him, hands pulling Till’s hips into his own. He kisses the back of Till’s neck, then slides his hands to under his navel. He strokes down, gently scrubbing with his palm. Till reaches behind himself, just enough to hold the sides of Paul’s hips lightly. That seems welcome enough. 

“What else are you thinking?” 

Paul rubs his cheek on the muscle of his shoulder. He takes a breath as if to say something, then thinks better of it. “I’ll tell you in a minute.” He continues down to Till’s pubes, his inner thighs, washing away the slick layer. His hands are sure as he holds Till’s soft dick, his balls heavy and fragile in the cup of his fingers. Till squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, until Paul releases him. 

“Want anything else?” Paul tightens his arms around Till’s chest. 

“Nah, I showered earlier.” He turns off the water. 

Out of the shower the bathroom feels crowded with the three of them in it, all on top of each other. 

“Now I could stand a drink,” Paul says, winding the towel around his waist. 

“I’ll get out the fancy shit.” What event would more merit the special occasion scotch?

Paul pads after him to the kitchen, though Flake says, “I’m getting back in bed.” 

Till gets out three small heavy tumblers. He holds all three in his hand while he unstops the bottle, their octagonal bases clicking together. Whatever it is Paul keeps wanting to say, maybe he wants to tell Till alone. 

“Just a finger,” Paul commands. 

Till pours them all short. 

“Fancy shit in bed?” Paul suggests. So he wants them all there for this. 

“Sounds like my kind of place.”

Flake is sitting up with the blankets pulled over his lap. Till sits next to him, and Paul discards the towel to get in facing them at the foot of the bed. Under the covers he puts one foot sole to sole with Till’s, his toes on the arch. 

Till hands out the glasses, and they solemnly toast in the middle of the bed.

“It’s definitely my turn to host next time,” Till says, warm oakey liquor blooming on his tongue. 

“Okay,” Flake agrees. 

Paul holds his gaze. “You know, This isn’t strictly the island any more.” 

Till is abruptly nervous again, his fingers tingling. “How so?” 

“We’re making an extension, what are those called, an isthmus.” 

Flake bumps his shoulder. “Yeah, you’re not just a visitor anymore. But if you’re not a visitor, then it’s not just our relationship here. It’s a different one.” 

“It’s a good place,” Till says, cautiously. 

“And it seems like a place you’ve got plans for,” Flake adds. “It’s a place I’ve got plans for.” 

Till squeezes the bottom of the glass, hard. “But it’s yours. It’s wonderful how you let me into it, but it’s a good place because of what you have.” 

“We’re already making it, it’s already growing,” Paul says, “Construction is underway. It will probably never be a very big country. It’s probably not somewhere you’ll spend a lot of time. But it’s an awfully pretty little place.” 

Till looks at his knees. “I -” He wishes the seconds weren’t sliding past in a rush while they wait for his answer. Unwillingly he says, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Having this be a country.”

Paul touches his knee through the blankets. “Every relationship is a country. You’re a citizen of thousands of them, probably. Even the measly little ones, like the neighbor you make small talk with when you get the mail, that’s a little country. Most of them don’t really matter, but they exist. Compared to those, this one is really nice. And we’re already here.” 

Till shakes his head. “I love coming here. But I don’t know that it can stand on its own like that.” 

Flake tsks. “It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” 

“I love it.” If nothing else they deserve his honesty. “I’ve loved every second of it. But thinking I can contribute to it, it’s not realistic. I’m not really like this. You know I’m not really like this.” 

“Well, yes and no,” says Paul. 

“Of course you’re not.” Flake answers, as if Paul hadn’t said anything. Which was not the response Till expected. “Nobody is really like this.” 

“You are.” 

Flake swirls his glass, examining it from another angle. “Only in some countries.” 

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing,” Paul adds. “You said it yourself, relationships are like foreign countries, you can’t know what they’re like unless you’re in them. Because in them, people can be different, different than they are in other places. You can pick which parts of yourself the relationship gets. They grow off of what you give them. And you build them that way.” 

Till wants to object, but Paul isn’t done. 

“And right now you’re a guy standing on the beach with a screwdriver. You’re building this with us.” Paul squeezes his knee. “Building this new country, one screw at a time.” 

Flake snickers. 

Till swallows hard. “I don't think I'm the right person to build something like that. I’m - I have rope burns on my wrists -” 

“Yeah, we know.” Paul is laughing at him, gently. “And bruises on your knees, and all the rest of it. But you don’t have to be the same everywhere. All those other ways you are, maybe they don’t all belong here, but you can belong here. So the question is, do you want it. Do you want this to be you.” 

Till can almost feel it, how it would be to have this little world he could carry in his pocket like an amulet. This place where he’s known, where everything is kind and bright. And he can feel it, too, how he’ll destroy it, how he’ll leave the earth here torched with a touch, his rot spreading to the surroundings, how he’ll kill something beautiful. But he wants it, he’s always wanted it -

“Till.” Flake prompts, and he’s surprised at how sharp his voice is. 

“Hey,” Paul says, softer, and it’s both meant to tell Flake to settle down, and to draw Till out. “I mean, why did you want me to show you how to blow Flake?” he asks. “Why did you want us to come here, instead of our place? Why did you turn the heat up in the bedroom?” 

“I do that for everyone,” Till says. 

Paul huffs a laugh. “Okay, but the rest of it.” 

But Paul is right. He’s been hoping, hoping this cloud castle would hold his weight. He shakes his head, tongue-tied.

Lowly Paul asks, “You trust us, right?” 

He looks at Paul’s hand on his knee. “I don’t trust Flake to keep track of his stuff. I don’t trust you to know when to drop an argument. But just about anything else, yeah.” He glances up. 

Paul nods. “Then can you trust me when I say that the reason we’re here is because we trust you, we want you?” 

Till shakes his head. “I’m not like you.” 

“That’s b-bullshit.” Flake, who has been mostly listening until now, sounds bothered, enough to stutter more than usual. 

Till glances at him. He’s especially pale in the black sweatshirt, his thin face unprotected-looking without his glasses. Bewildered, he says, “Flake -” 

Paul reaches for Flake, tangling their fingers together. Flake squeezes back, his knuckles going white. Till expects Paul to take back over, to tell Flake to cool down, but he’s just rubbing his thumb over his strained knuckles supportively. 

“It’s j-just,” Flake’s stutter is worse, it’s starting to stretch and twist his words. “I never g-get to trust anyone. But you, I always can trust you, and j-just for once I got to know that Paul wasn’t going to have to save me from whatever stupid thing I was g-going to hurt myself with next. Because it’s a-all or nothing for m-mm-m _me_.” 

Till nods, it’s true that Flake trusts so easily, and gets burned most of the time, he’s seen it again and again. 

“A-and you’re going to t-tell me you’re, what, you’re not g-good enough for this?” His voice has guttural low notes, the way it does when he’s forcing it, “Because of some, some _story_ about how fucked up y-you are?” His voice cracks, he’s talking too loud. 

Almost a whisper, Till says, “It’s not just a story.” 

Paul rubs his toes on the arch of Till’s foot. The way Flake is clinging to his hand must hurt, it’s so tight. 

“Okay, sure, you’re a little fucked u-up.” Flake got the volume back under control, he’s quiet again, but still intense. “That d-doesn’t make this country go away. It doesn’t make who you are here not real.”

“Doesn’t it?” He meant to sound contradictory, but it came out weak and tinged with desperation. It hurts to keep killing the little glimmers of hope his brain keeps releasing. But if one of them survives, then a whole swarm of them will be set free, and then he’s really in trouble. 

Paul covers the huge snarled wad of Till’s hands in his lap with one of his, sturdy though smaller. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he offers. “I’m not really like this either. Hell, even together we’re not. But especially not me. But I like who I am with Flake, most of the time. And I can do it most of the time, I can be that person. And I like who I am when you’re with us, too.” Till untwists his hands enough to let Paul slide their palms together. “I like who you are when you’re with us. I mean, I like you most of the rest of the time, too. But I really like you with us.” 

Honesty wins out again over Till’s better judgement. “I like who you both are here.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” Paul smirks at him in that self-satisfied way of his that gives no quarter. 

“So,” Flake says, his voice lower and a little raspy, “different question. Do you like who _you_ a-are here, when you’re with us?” 

Till takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yes. No question.” That deep, aching hunger is gnawing at his core. 

Quietly Paul says, “Well, that’s the dream, isn’t it. A place that brings out a part of you that you like. A relationship that thrives on happiness. They don’t all.” 

“No,” says Till. “They don’t.” 

“All those other p-places that are different than here, that do something else for you, they’re still there.”

“Yeah, you can still go to the countries where you feel fucked up wherever you want,” Paul says, like he’s humoring the concept, though he doesn’t quite believe in it. “And then come here for a change. Same as us.” 

Till nods. Something in him is cracking, some dam that was barely holding back a flood is dissolving. They’ll see the scars and scrapes without trying to change him. They’ll never be able to beat his demons out of him, set him free from himself just for a few minutes, the way he needs. But they’ll know it all, and want him anyway.

“Yeah.” Flake scrubs his face with one sleeve. He puts his free hand on Till’s thigh, over the covers. “You know I like tiny countries. Want to build one of our own?” 

They’ll want him. And they’ll have him. The battle is over, the bright swarm of hope has escaped, and Till has lost. But oh, he has won. 

Slowly, gingerly he lowers his head to Flake’s shoulder, covered with his own sweatshirt. “What kinds of places are between the mountains and the beach?” 

***

They get up and putter around in the kitchen, mostly Flake cooks and Paul hangs onto Till. They dragged a bar stool in by the stove and he can sit and let Paul pull him back against his chest. He’s still about halfway to panic, though it’s getting better the longer Paul holds him. Flake put on pants under the too-big hoodie, Paul and Till are back in t-shirts. He found Flake’s sweater under the bed, at the same time as he discovered the new box of gloves, new bottle of lube, and new box of condoms. Plus the box of paper parasols. And a receipt, that had fluttered down on top. 

“Meadows,” he says. 

“What about them?” 

“That’s what’s between the beach and the mountains. Meadows.” 

Flake taps the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan. “Maybe just one meadow, it’s not a very big place.” 

Paul kisses Till just under the ear. “Want a cottage? We could build a cottage.” 

Till leans back against him. “We probably already have the foundation for it.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Little trout pond.” 

“Couple apple trees.” 

“Vegetable plots,” Flake says. “Stuff that likes a lot of sun.” 

Till smiles. “Cucumbers. Biggest ones you’ve ever seen.” 

“Great. Till can make schlong-pickles, to go with the apples and fish. Everything we need for a holiday.” 

Till gets up with a last squeeze from Paul. Flake gets out plates and drains the pasta. Till finds the box he took from the bedroom where he left it on the counter and shakes out three. He catches Paul as he’s filling glasses at the sink. 

“Here.” He unfurls the parasol, this one is purple. He pokes it behind Paul’s ear. Then a green one for Flake, setting out the sauce. A yellow one for himself. “Welcome.”


End file.
